The Godspeaker Trilogy (139 page)

Alasdair touched his fingertips to her hip. “Rhian?”

Gritting her teeth she stood, padded over to the window and drew back the heavy curtains. Beyond the panes of glass Kingseat Harbour glittered silver beneath the moons, its surface calm, no ocean storms to fret it. There was no bustle now, in the middle of the night, all the visiting boats were asleep at their moorings. But the harbourmaster's men still patrolled in their torchlit skiffs, making certain no-one thought to disturb the peace with rowdy-making or any less harmless misbehaviour. Although she was shivering, hurting, and the dreams were still so near, she felt her lips curve in bemused affection.

Everyone thinks the king – or queen – makes things happen in a kingdom. It's simply not true. It's the secretaries and their staffs who keep the wheels turning. Without them doggedly pursuing their duties these past weeks Ethrea would've crumbled into the ocean. They love the kingdom as much as I. In some ways I think it's even closer to their hearts, for their busy fingers take its pulse every day.

“Rhian,” Alasdair said again.

“I'm all right,” she said, not turning.

The blankets rustled, the bed's wood frame creaked, and then he stood at the window behind her, his arms gathering her close. His touch was gentle, mindful of her wounds. “You're in pain?”

“A little. It's no great thing.”

He sighed, but didn't argue. “Bad dreams?”

“Bad enough.”

His lips brushed lightly over her hair, but although the gesture was loving she could feel his tension and impatience. “The dukes forced you to it. If you hadn't taken the crown, if you'd named me king and yourself queen consort, say, don't you think they'd still have challenged?”

She wanted to think that, but…“I don't know. How much were they fighting for their own ambitions, and how much were they incited by me? If Ranald or Simon hadn't died, Alasdair…”

His embrace tightened. “But they did. They died and you didn't. How many times will you revisit the unchangeable past, Rhian? You are queen. And today you did what any monarch would do – must do – to preserve the stability of the kingdom.”

“You'd have killed them?” she said, turning so she could see him properly. “If you were king and they refused to accept it?”

His bony face was obdurate in the shimmering moonslight. “Yes. Rhian, there must be order. There must be obedience and fealty, especially now. Ethrea's never faced a greater danger. You did what had to be done. God's will.”

“I know,” she muttered. “But it wasn't God's hand holding the shortsword, Alasdair.” It was mine. And I can't forget what it felt like, steel plunging through cloth and flesh, the shock of resistance, the surrender of life .

He took her chin in his fingers, his grip a breath away from painful. “Yes. You killed them. And do you think that's the first and last unbearable thing you'll have to do as queen? Today was nothing. Today was cracking two fleas between your fingernails. Now make your peace with it or surrender your crown.”

“That's cruel,” she whispered, and retreated to perch on the side of their bed.

“The truth often is,” he retorted. “Rhian—”

“Oh, don't you understand, Alasdair? I'm terrified .”

Abandoning the window he crossed the carpeted floor to her and dropped to one knee. “Of what?”

“Of myself.” She couldn't look at him. “There's power in the hotas . Such a raw and blinding power. Kyrin's death was – was untidy. But Damwin? He was dead before my sword pierced his flesh. He was dead because I wanted him dead and the hotas were in me, rich and ripe.” They'd felt glorious. She'd felt glorious. In that single white-hot moment she'd felt as invincible as God.

And what does that make me? Am I some kind of monster, like Zandakar's mother? Like Zandakar's brother?

“You're shivering,” said Alasdair. “Get back under the covers.”

He helped her ease beneath the blankets, and slid beside her. His fingers laced with hers and she held on, tightly, as though he could anchor her to herself.

“Killing doesn't give you pleasure, Rhian,” he said. “Zandakar may have trained you, but you're not him.”

There was nothing she could say to that, so she stayed silent. Beyond the chamber window the night sky was shifting slowly towards dawn. Alasdair's breathing deepened and slowed and he drifted to sleep again, but she remained wakeful. Her mind continued to replay the moments, over and over, when her shortsword had plunged deep into Kyrin's throat and Damwin's belly.

Dear God. Now three men are dead by my hand. I've killed more men than any nobleman in Ethrea since Rollin walked among us and showed us a better way.

And before this was over, she was afraid that tally would grow.

But not too high, God. I beg you, not too high.

Dexterity woke at dawn, out of habit, but instead of getting up straight away, as he usually did, he stayed in bed and stared at the ceiling. He should get up. There were puppets to finish…but he didn't have the heart. Melancholy , Ursa called it, and prescribed a brisk walk.

She'd stopped by his cottage last night to tell him how Rhian had defeated the last two stubborn dukes. Killed them both, though not before shedding blood herself.

“I see,” he'd said, as though she'd mentioned it might rain at some point, even as his heart drubbed his ribs with relief. “And was that all you wanted, to pass along gossip? Only it is quite late and I was on my way to bed.”

She'd scowled, so ferocious. “Jones, I could smack you.”

“Yes, you could,” he agreed. “But you won't. Not with the high opinion you have of yourself.”

And that had made her stamp out crossly, just as he'd intended. Afterwards he'd sat in his kitchen, trembling, awash with gratitude that Rhian had prevailed. Though he'd been grief-stricken too, that she'd been forced to kill the dukes.

Stupid, stupid men. As stupid as Marlan. Why was it they refused to accept what had been thrust under their proud noses? He'd not been able to find an answer last night and he couldn't find one now, curled beneath his blankets ignoring his urgent bladder.

But while he could ignore his bladder if he had to, he couldn't ignore Otto. With the sun up the donkey would surely start to heehaw any moment, demanding his breakfast oats at the top of his lungs.

It promised to be a beautiful day, warm and cloudless. He fed and watered Otto, then took a moment to admire the late summer's blue sky, still blushing pink with the risen sun. But that small pleasure faded quickly. Scant weeks ago he'd have had so much to do now, his cart to load up with supplies for his toyshop, last minute sewing for his puppets' little costumes, or careful final touches of paint – a gleam in the eye, a rose in the cheeks. Scores of customers to visit, maybe even the castle. Scant weeks ago he'd been Royal Toymaker by Appointment.

But not any more.

The blue sky overhead was empty, and so was his life. No purpose. No excitement. No—

“Oh come along, Dexie. Do stop feeling sorry for yourself. As if we've time for pouts and sulking.”

Hettie . Heart thudding, he kept his gaze pinned on the blueness overhead. “On the contrary, I've lots of time for anything I like. Except the thing I want most, of course. You might've helped me with that, Hettie. It's not as if I've not done anything for you of late.”

“Toys, Dexterity?” she said. “You worry about toys with the world beneath so dark a shadow?”

He unpinned his gaze from the vaulting sky and looked at her. None of her substance had returned since last he saw her. In fact, she looked even more precarious. Tattered, translucent, her yellow cotton dress frayed. As though her soul had a wasting sickness, and here was its face. He wanted to fear for her, but tasted only bitterness.

“If you'd told me helping you would make me a killer, Hettie, I'd have drowned myself in that bath before ever lifting a finger.”

“You're not responsible for Marlan,” she said. Her soft brown eyes were full of sorrow. “He chose his own path, Dex.”

“So you're saying God killed him? I thought it was Zandakar's people who worshipped a bloodthirsty God. Has something changed?”

She took one step towards him, her feet hidden in the garden's ragged grass. “He was a wicked man, Dex. He'd have brought Ethrea to ruin. To save himself all he had to do was kneel. His pride and greed and ambition wouldn't let him, and so he died.”

“He died because he touched me! You never told me that could happen, Hettie!”

She sighed. “He didn't touch you. He touched the power of God, and the power of God rejected him. You were nothing but a vessel, Dex. Unburden yourself of guilt for his death.”

He gaped at her. Nothing but a vessel? What kind of thing was that to say? “Don't you care I'm distressed by this?”

“Of course I care,” she said, and took another step closer. “Dexie, I love you.”

“Seems to me you've a strange way of showing it,” he muttered. “All the things you've had me do, I nearly died of exhaustion from them. I was in so much pain, Hettie. For days and days even the air hurt my skin. And you never came to see if I was all right. Not once. You never came, you never tried to heal me, you—”

“You had Ursa!”

“ She's not my wife! Where have you been ?”

“Oh, Dex…” Hettie's eyes filled with tears. “I come when I can. I help you as I can. Would I have left you if I'd had a choice? I know you've suffered. I suffered with you. But I told you, didn't I, that this would be hard?”

“Telling me and living it are two different things,” he said sullenly. “Bringing that dead boy Walder back to life, that was joyful . But what joy has there been since then, Hettie? And you never said I'd lose my livelihood over this! How am I supposed to live now? My savings are dwindling. Word's spread that I've lost the queen's approval. Who'll risk angering royalty to buy a doll? The harbour markets don't pay enough. Do I throw myself on Ursa's charity? Do I abandon the craft I've spent my life perfecting and pick up a broom for sweeping the streets? Or perhaps I should leave Ethrea altogether.”

“And go where, Dex?” said Hettie. “If we fail in the coming days nowhere will be safe.”

“ We ?” He stared at her, then shook his head. Stepped back. “Oh, no. No, Hettie. Not again. I'll not be bamboozled and hoodwinked again. I've lost my livelihood to this business. I won't lose my life too.”

“But you will, Dex,” she said. The tears were dried on her cheeks, or vanished. “You and everyone else. We have this brief moment of respite, this heartbeat of time in which to act…and then the storm will break. Such a storm, Dex. It will sweep the world bare. It will scour every land to bones and stone. What are your hurt feelings compared to that?”

“Nothing, it seems,” he retorted. “Nothing to you or to God. And that hurts me further, Hettie. Am I a wicked man for feeling so? Am I sinful, for mourning all I've lost because I did what you begged of me without a second thought? Perhaps I am. And I'm so sorry if it seems pretty, my love , but if you truly ever knew me you'd know toymaking is my heart. Now my heart's torn from me and I'm grieving . And I think I'd rather grieve alone!”

He was nearly shouting. There were tears in his eyes, clogging his throat. Never since the day they met had he spoken to her in such a fashion. Never railed at her. Never longed to shake her. Never felt so abandoned and alone.

“I'm sorry,” Hettie whispered. “Don't you think I know what I've done? Using you the way I have, don't you think I know what that's cost? Of course I know, Dexie. I knew before ever I came to you that first time, the price you'd pay for loving me like you do.”

It was hard to breathe. Her words were like blows from a harbour-brawling sailor. “And you came anyway. You used me and never told me what I'd lose for loving you.”

“How could I not?” she said, beseeching. “With so much at stake, so many lives in the balance, Dex. How could I not use whatever weapon came to my hand?”

“But why you ?” he demanded. “You were never so pious when you lived in this cottage, Hettie. You went to Litany most weeks, but not always. And you never gave a thought to Church beyond that. Why is it you who—” And then he choked to silence, and felt himself back away. “Are you even really Hettie? Or are you something else that's dressed itself in her face, to coddle me into thinking – into doing—” He sucked in a shuddering gasp. “Are you – you're not—”

“No,” said Hettie swiftly. “No, Dex. I'm not God. I swear it on every sweet night we spent together. I'm your wife. I'm Hettie.”

“And why have you come back to me? There's nothing else I can do for you. Rhian's on the throne and she knows the danger we're facing from Zandakar's family. She doesn't need my help any more. She's got Emperor Han and his witch-men.”

“Does she?” said Hettie. “Emperor Han is a mystery, Dex. His heart is a locked box and only he has the key to it.”

He stared, suddenly sick. “Rhian's in danger from the emperor?”

“She's in danger on all sides, Dex. Winning her crown was only the start. I thought you understood that.”

Clutching at the stubbly start of his new beard, he turned away. “I don't understand anything , Hettie! I used to have such a simple life!” He turned back. “These witch-men. What are they? What power is it they command? Are they like the priests of Mijak? Do they truck with evil and darkness? With blood ?”

Hettie was wearing a threadbare shawl. She tightened it around her insubtantial shoulders, her golden hair lank and loose about her face. “No. But, Dex, you should be wary. The witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai serve their emperor first and last and always. Remember that in your dealings with them.”

“Dealings?” He shook his head vehemently, remembering Sun-dao. “I'll have no more dealings with them.”

“Yes you will, Dex.”

“Hettie, I won't . I'm finished with great matters. I'm a small man. I've grown so small I'm practically invisible.”

She smiled. “Oh, Dex. You were never a small man. Your heart's so big the world could fit inside it.”

He folded his arms. “I tell you I'm done with advising the mighty. Rhian doesn't want me anyway. She's made that clear.”

“She may not want you but she needs you. God needs you, Dexie. Can you turn your back on God?”